Broad-shouldered and limber, John moves like someone who has learned to dance on the edge of a cutlass. His fur is an uneven patchwork — dark russet across his back, a faded strip along one flank where he once burned himself on a brazier, and a wide stripe of near-white under his chin that gives him the look of an ill-tempered goatee. He favors a battered tricorne hat turned at a rakish angle and enormous, soft-soled boots so oddly huge they chuff when he walks, making a small cloud of dust when he steps. Despite his bulk, his motions are quick and spry; he rolls, feints, and flourishes with theatrical flair. The most surprising detail is the polished silver monocle he wears over his left eye — delicate, refined, and incongruously aristocratic on a shaggy bugbear swashbuckler.